


You Can't Always Get What You Want

by nixwilliams



Series: What you want / What you need [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-10
Updated: 2007-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 12:23:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nixwilliams/pseuds/nixwilliams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It took next to no time for Jo to stake a claim on Dean, and Ash had slid along into Plan B, otherwise known as the fucking-Sam-plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can't Always Get What You Want

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to [spn_roadhouse](http://spn-roadhouse.livejournal.com/14397.html) on LJ in January 2007. For [gelasius](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gelasius/pseuds/gelasius).

He doesn’t like to think about it.

There was a time when, you know, this was what he wanted. To make it clear, _sex_ was what he wanted. Didn’t so much care who with. What with. The usual stuff was good, and the rest? Bring it the fuck on. Plenty of dudes out there had a thing for guns, and hell, he knew how to play _that_ shit. Not saying he doesn’t sometimes wish there was a woman or two around here to lay down with, but there’s not. Well, there’s Ellen and Jo, but fuck no. No. He’d rather play things-that-go-bump-in-the-night with people less likely to cut his balls off and eat them for breakfast.

Anyway, that was what he’d wanted. Sex. As frequently as possible. With whoever, bar the Harvelles.

Ellen’s famous Winchester Boys, though, they shook things up around the place. The two of them came slouching in, all dark edges and unpredictability, and the second they slouched back out Jo came knocking on his door with a happy smirk and the words, “Race you,” on her lips. He’d pretended to consider it for a good few seconds before agreeing. Jo grinned and slapped her hand into his, as if this was the start of the mile. As if they weren’t already running.

And _Dean_. Man, was that some hot piece of ass or what? Fuck it, but he’d wanted to haul him onto the pool table the second he saw him. He had no pangs of conscience racing Jo to _that_. Not a single one. The only problem with the whole fucking-Dean-plan being that Dean was apparently straight as the proverbial arrow and currently inclined to indulge only in the bare essentials: eating, hitting half-heartedly on pretty blondes, drinking, baring his tortured soul to strangers at random bars (the hunterly version of picking scabs), and killing things. In reverse order. It took next to no time for Jo to stake a claim on Dean, and Ash had slid along into Plan B, otherwise known as the fucking-Sam-plan.

The next time the Winchesters sat themselves at one of the tables, hunched silently over their beers in one corner of the bar, he caught Sam’s eye across the room. He lifted his beer in a mock salute, mouthed, “Cheers,” and took a mouthful, gaze never faltering. Sam’s eyes dropped to his own drink, slid over to the angry wall of Dean’s shoulders, flicked back to his beer, then up again. Ash raised an eyebrow, and Sam’s nod had been barely there, more question than agreement, his face all dim light and hard shadows. He looked two inches away from smashing his glass against the wall, and he downed his drink like a fucking pro, jostled Dean as he stood, and muttered something under his breath. Dean didn’t moved an inch, and Sam’s lips pressed together, his eyes slanting up, staring hard at his brother for a minute before he turned and stalked out through the back of the bar.

Ash followed Sam a minute later, and found him leaning on the door to his room, arms crossed, hair down over his eyes. For an awkward second he wondered if he’d read it all wrong, but then Sam herded him fast up against the wall, cast resting beside his head, face bent down until there was only a breath of space between them. When he spoke, Sam’s voice hovered between amused and bitter. “Didn’t think you’d settle for second best, Ash,” he said, then grabbed a handful of shirtfront and half-lifted him through the door.

And so it went; hard and silent and angry. He’d only come off the wall long enough to fall to his knees, his fingers tangling with Sam’s on Sam’s zipper, tangling again around the fabric under the zipper, then on the skin under the fabric, until he knocked Sam’s hand out of the way and leant forward, and Sam’s fingers found their way into his hair, winding and twisting and holding him just tight enough to be in control.

Ash apologised for playing games, said sorry with his tongue around Sam’s dick, tasting the bitter salt at the back of his mouth, and he thought maybe Sam was forgiving him with a yank on his hair and the stutter-jump of his hips.

When Sam came, his face was screwed painfully tight, not looking, trying too damn hard to forget who he was fucking, and Ash choked like an amateur, gagged on the hotness across his tongue and throat. He muffled the cough against Sam’s thigh, smearing come across Sam’s leg before he grabbed an old shirt off the floor and spat. Sam’s fingers had still been wrapped in his hair, and he gave two gentle tugs. _Get up_. The words _second best_ still coloured the air between them when Sam knelt, quick and quiet, to return the favour.

The next day, they were gone, and Jo tilted a smirk at him across the bar. “First time for everything, I guess,” she proclaimed. He grinned at her around the neck of his beer. “Ain’t gonna be the last time, Princess,” he replied, and pretended to feel like the winner.


End file.
